Bands of Avalon
by Delilah Draken
Summary: A story about duty, love and family.
1. Empire: Promotion

**Bands of Avalon**

by  
Delilah Draken

.

.

**Empire  
Ironhide: Promotion**

"Sunlight," he remembers his training sergeant saying, " can be your worst enemy."

Back then he didn't believe the old soldier, thought himself invincible in a way that only rookie cadets who've never seen a battle before can ever be. He didn't see any sense in learning about camouflage techniques and how to move an army without making a sound. Fighting from a hidden point seemed like an act of cowardice to him.

"You'll change your mind," the sergeant told him. "You'll change your mind so fast that not even a hacker could follow your thoughts."

Now, that he has been stationed on Calios Minor, he can appreciate the irony in his teacher's words. Cybertronian eyes are just not built to work well under the gleam of two suns. If he were to allow himself to contemplate the reasons - which he will definitely not do, by the way - he would see than any kind of light resistance is not something a species living on a planet without active sun would ever develop on its own.

Too bad then that he is the only soldier in his platoon who has not gone through with the recommended procedure and gotten his eyes recalibrated. One of these days he is going to kick himself in the head for this useless fear of medics.

Of course, that will have to be not today, as he is quite busy fighting against a whole platoon of Tharl.

"Where is our slagging reinforcement?"

They had lost thirty men this morning, so the question is nothing but appropriate at the moment. Maybe a bit distracting, he tells himself while he dodges fire from all sides and tries to get a lock on this damned tank the little organics are using to keep them away from their city.

The tank, annoying thing that it is, does not comply to his wishes and keeps on firing at him.

"Don't know," he says. "Don't care."

The other falls silent and begins to concentrate again on eradicating the enemy fire. A moment later that soldier is nothing but smoking scrap metal coated in mud and body fluids. Not much of a loss, that.

If he had paid attention to his surroundings, he would have realized that the Tharl were obviously winning this battle. But, as has always been his nature, he is a better fighter when fighting alone, he does not see that the number of soldiers on his side is dwindling by the dozens.

For a long time he fights like this, always thinking only about his next shot, his next move closer to the enemy lines.

He fights so long that, when reinforcement finally arrives in the form of three flyers coming down on the Tharl like Unicron's bad humour, he needs a moment to put it all in perspective. After all, there wouldn't be much sense in firing at his own people.

He blinks, takes a look around himself and seeing the carnage has to sit down. Is he really the only survivor? That can't be right, can it?

Later, when he wakes up in a military hospital, he is told to report for a duty reassignment.

"Lord Protector," they say, "was impressed by your... stubborn streak."


	2. Empire: Cuckoo's Song

**Empire  
Ironhide: Cuckoo's Song**

"Why are you doing it?"

He stops his daily routine of weapon cleaning and battle training to look at his young charge. Pale eyes full of curiosity look back at him as if he were able to hold all the answers in the universe. Such loyalty, especially when found in children, is not something he will ever be very comfortable with.

"Doing what?" he replies, already counting the soft ticks of his cooling armour to keep himself from going idle in the way his old training sergeant always proclaimed to hate the most.

"That," the boy says and orders his face into a mien of exaggerated wide-eyed adoration. "You're always doing it when he's here. Why?"

"I wasn't even aware I was doing it at all, my heir." And there is no reason which would be able to force his answer. No reason whatsoever.

"I've read your file."

He becomes very still, not one millimetre of his frame moving but for the silent and slow intake of air. Exactly how he came to accumulate this habit, he has long ago decided to not think about. Too many contacts with foreign species can to that to a soldier.

"You are Decepticon, but you went into the army like a conscripted slave, like a drone even. Why that, Ironhide? They would have let you into the flyer academies."

His snort, carefully hidden in a cough, is louder than he intended it to be. Like the rapid fire following a silent storm. "A line's honour is not much help to grow wings, kid."

The boy – Prime's Heir, never merely a boy, slag it all! – Megatron shakes his head in denial, as if the motion alone could frighten away all unwanted thoughts. It produces a pang of guilt in the other's heart. Time for damage control.

"Flying in a ship is bad enough." Picking the child up and swinging him around in great circles seems like a good idea to Ironhide. There are never enough chances to make the young ones laugh. "Why would I want to do it on my own?"

From behind he can hear another laugh, this one more reserved as if there were no clear permission to let it out. Prime's Heirs are never far from each other, after all.

With a bellowing laugh, the kind of laugh that often sounds more frightening than happy, he throws Megatron high, high, high into the air. When the small body lands on his back he already has the other brother in his arms and walks towards the Heir's rooms.

They are nearly asleep, looking far younger than they are, when he arrives there to put them into their recharging harnesses. His fingers linger on their heads, touching fragile exo lines in an absent minded caress.

"That way," Megatron whispers. "Why are you always looking at him like that?"

Ironhide can only look to the side, at a picture taken during one boring state affair or another. There the reigning brothers are captured for all to see, Prime and Lord Protector forever united in tradition and duty.

"Because he is who he is," he says. "Because he is exactly who he is."


	3. Empire: In His Stead

**Empire  
****Ironhide: In His Stead**

The halls echo around him. The steps a fast staccato, he ignores the suffocating atmosphere that saturates every air molecule in the building. Nothing catches even a short moment of his attention as he runs past empty conference rooms and vast chambers filled with gossiping bureaucrats.

"Damn it!" he growls when a small number of these simpering fools known under the title politician dares to slow him down. If luck is with him he might even get the change to shoot one or two of them if they annoy him enough. But sadly, he remembers that such behaviour wouldn't look all that good in his file.

Really, he thinks while he tries to find his way through the annoying mass known as district senators. I don't have the time to wait for them to finally fill out the paperwork to move their rusted afts out of the slagging way!

The message he received this morning was clear enough to encourage his haste. 'Come fast!' it said, the clumsy way the letters were formed proclaiming the sender as obvious as a signature. 'Prime wants to proclaim him Protector'.

Damn it to the pits and back, he growls again. This time the curse comes silent, hidden like every good Guard Commander's intentions should always be. Showing his anger in this situation would be as detrimental to him and those he considers his own as jumping from the highest temple spires without wings would have been. Definitely painful, probably deadly and oh so humiliating in its pathetic mess.

When he finally arrives at his destination, the heavy gates falling shut behind him like a predator's teeth once it's caught a tasty prey, he can only stare at the farce playing out before his eyes. There they stand: the mighty Orion Prime, mien as empty as a broken spark's last glimmer of light; and the two heirs. The younger of the two fidgets with nervous energy, as if looking for an escape route but not able to find any. The older one, head held high in a futile attempt to look like the proud recipient of a great honour, seems as afraid as any untrained soldier shoved into a battle zone ever could be.

"Prime," he calls into the void of sound arising before the ruler of Cybertron can speak the final words in this shame of a ritual. "I request my right as Protector's Guard."

The only answer he receives is a gaze as hot and angry as a cannon's fire, the words 'You dare to defy me' hanging like a tainted blade between sovereign and faithful warrior. For a moment, not even the unremarkable sighs of cooling systems can be heard, as if the planet itself is waiting for Prime's verdict.

Then... a nod.

The one called Ironhide shivers in relief. Now I can make it right again, he thinks when the small forms of his cherished heirs hurry to his side. And when they hide behind his back, like the young children they are, he cannot help but smile.

Let them have this moment, he thinks. They grow up too fast anyway.


	4. Empire: Castaway, Day 1

**Empire  
Soundwave: Castaway  
Day 1**

He is surrounded by blessed silence. Dark clouds of serenity fly through his systems like a sparkling wish for the void. There is nothing that could disturb his slumber.

"... to Cyrus Tertiae and back. Wake up!"

A slap thunders through his body and shakes sleeping parts into action. Instinct demands his reaction in form of a hit between the eyes of the one who dared to deny him rest. His right fist finds its goal with the assuredness of a seasoned sniper, creating a comforting crack upon impact.

"Well, at least you're alive," is mumbled. It sounds to him like the petulant whining of a certain apprentice navigator he never fully manages to avoid. Though he certainly yearns for it from time to time. Thus, a pained groan seems to be a fitting answer.

"I can't be so bad, boss."

His eyes open only to send a glare with the intention to shut the speaker bloody well up towards the student. The child should have learned by now that he doesn't like 'babbling'. After all, he spent quite a long time raising it.

"Status," he says. For a short moment he is surprised to feel pain accompanying his speech. Then, memory returns in its technicolor dreamcoat and points his thoughts at the more urgent matter at hand.

The answer comes as prompt as he expected. "With you, we have four survivors."

He flinches. Only four out of fifty-seven that remained on board. He has to force himself to believe that the loss could have been far greater. Thanatos, being one of the smaller education vessels not in the hands of temple academies, was carrying six hundred students at the time. If his recollection doesn't fail him, which it never has done before, he is sure that all escape pods left intact and fully manned.

"Who?"

"Us two, the ship and that twin from combat training." He already forms letters of condolence in his head, going through all names on his memorized student list.

Four names he marks as 'Not terminated': Thanatos, grand carrier and apprentice's guardian; Soundwave, navigator and project commander (hacker 1st class); Ravage, apprentice navigator (hacker 3rd class); Sunstreaker, student of combat class 301-Theta.

Not much, he thinks, but enough to get home in one piece.

With a sound of impatience and suppressed hurt, he stands up only to realize that his left knee must obviously be damaged. Were he not who he is, a curse louder than an explorer's scream would have echoed through the air. Instead he merely sinks back to ground and glowers at his young heir.

"You got Frenzy off the ship?" asks Ravage, body held in a position of denied worry for a line sibling.

"He is alive." More is not possible to get out. His mind will never believe anything else. It must be enough for the child.

Without his consent his body begins to shut down. 'Begin stasis' flickers through his head.

Not so far away, a twin is mourning a lost brother. The sounds of weeping follow him beyond the borders of sleep into the lands of nightmares.


	5. Empire: Castaway, Day 2

**Empire  
****Soundwave: Castaway**

**Day Two**

It is the soft dripping of a lazy rain that finally awakes him. Though full consciousness does not arrive until much later. His mind, dreadfully slow after the prolonged stasis, idles along the lines of 'family comes always first' and 'the hacker is never wrong'. Primitive instinct, what some might call the baser part of intelligent life, can no more be avoided than a librarian's lust for knowledge.

No wonder then, that his shields are not up when he opens his eyes. What normally is nothing more than a far away whisper, runs through his senses with the undivided attention of a very proficient assassin. Knowledge that has no place in his memory fights for its right to admittance with full blades out and a plasma torpedo thrown in for artistic correctness. It burns itself into the bravely refusing but still too unprotected walls of his inner sanctum, makes him speak with more emotion than he is usually wont to do.

"There is another," he says with a bleeding croak in his voice. All fluidity seems to have fled from him like a horde of stampeding cattle.

The two sitting beside him exchange a look of startled wonderment. Ravage, as small and lithe as hackers tend to be, shrugs as if to say that such exclamations are normal for his commander. He is, after all, very much used to his creator's way of communication. Sunstreaker though, using the bulkier form of a part-flier born and having obviously never been near a hacker – let alone a hacker 1st class - for prolonged periods of time before, rolls his eyes in annoyance and kicks at the smaller but obviously older youth.

The sound of metal hitting metal scratches within the confines of his tired brain like a saw through wood. Soundwave is not amused.

"There. Is. Another." Repetition finally manages to hammer the message into the students' heads, which earns him their full though reluctant attention.

He points to the impact area, a desolate place that no longer resembles the wild order of organic life, but the molten look of a war zone. Space ships are just not made for planet landings. Especially the kind of ship that Thanatos has chosen to spend his last years as.

The wounded hacker cannot help but wonder how the ship can still be alive. Such destruction, he thinks, is nothing but awe-inspiring.

And, a nagging voice in his cortex reminds him, a child is somewhere in there. A small child not even through his first transformation.

Soundwave can hear the child's fear. Its saturating thickness clocks his thought processes.

The two students, well trained into the appropriate reactions, promptly move to search the still slightly smoldering rubble. He guides their search with short words of command.

A while later, too long for his taste, Ravage and Sunstreaker return with a tiny bundle of shivering energy clawed onto the taller one's back.

"Prowl," he calls out, the name taken from the little child's memory. "Come to me." And be safe in a father's arms, is implied but not spoken.

"How," he thinks when the baby is hiding in his lap and the other children are also bundled close to him. "How am I going to keep us all alive here?"


	6. Civil War: Honour

**Civil War  
Megatron: Honour**

This war has gone too far. He knows it as if it were his only breath, feels the fact within his body like a blade cutting through flesh and bone. Gone are the majestic temples, the vast oceans, the castles that have guided their place since the beginning of time. Gone are the laughter and the dreams. Everything is gone. Nothing remains.

His eyes roam the ruins of a major city, watching as flames consume the homes of millions , dispassionately making sure that no survivor escapes. He is aware that even his own troops fear him more than death. Somehow the thought amuses him. It would have made him chuckle were it not against the unspoken rules of his caste to express such emotions.

Once upon a time, before the war began, he was proud to be born into his caste. It was an honour to be called a warrior of Decepticon then. An unimaginable honour, but also a duty that, when fulfilled in the way it deserves, demands a prize that not many are able to pay.

Once upon a time, there was peace, there was a just reign between the two castes of Cybertron. He shared the throne with his brother in all but name, for a warrior can never be Prime. It was his duty to make the decisions that his gentle Prime-brother could not. He had to protect all of Cybertron. Even sometimes from the truth.

Thus began the war.

He admits to falling into battle fever, to becoming a small bit of a delusional madman. He admits to feeling pleasure when hunting and killing his enemies. He also admits to destroying the trust of the only being that still held his broken soul in any regard, though it is probably the only thing he regrets doing. He can still remember the day his heir ran away to follow the Prime.

Only a few days ago he has heard of his boy becoming Prime's second. He can joyfully admit that the destruction of this city was in celebration of the fact. The warrior is sure that young one will not be very happy about it.

He wonders why he no longer cares.


	7. New Home: Semper Fidelis

**New Home  
Ironhide: Semper Fidelis**

He hears the message sent out to the remaining pieces of a once great empire, listens to the words like a zealot on his first quest for Mecca. It sounds like truth but – and there always is a but, he thinks – the way the sounds are delivered rings like the dark bell of despair, full of hidden pain and broken hearts. From this way no help will come.

He remembers the old times, before the war and the problems that created the need for it. He remembers the happy times when he was Commander of the Guard, the highest rank a soldier of Decepticon lineage could find himself honoured to fill, and teacher to the young heirs. He remembers laughter and children's pranks, scolding words and important lessons.

He remembers thinking that old Orion Prime, who had no mind for ruling and most of the times let Lord Trion decide what should be done, really should not have been the one to continue the most exalted and cherished line. Trion, in his youth famous for his victories in the arena, was better suited for fatherhood. After all, as well balanced as a mind can be, it is the passionate ones who incite the fires of knowledge. And this passion within Trion's spark was it that made him reign over an empire as vast as theirs with the loving touch of a tender kiss.

With the air of one condemned to the gallows, his feet carry him to his designated place beside the Prime, one step left and behind the imposing figure of his young sovereign. The child, and he has never managed to think of Optimus as anything but, sighs in the tired way only fighters with nothing left to lose can. The sound saddens him beyond imagination.

"It should never have come to this," his charge whispers in the chosen language of the area, every syllable of an organic way of speech tainted by mourning.

There is nothing for him to say, only protective silence follows as an answer to Optimus' unspoken question. Was I wrong? seems to hang between them like the sword of Damokles. Was I wrong all the time and you didn't correct me?

"I should be dead," comes after a short moment that seemingly lasted for eternity and much longer still. "Not him, never him."

"You did what needed to be done, Prime. There's nothing else." His voice is gruff in his reply, short words most suited for a warrior's arguments. That, if nothing else, will bring the lamenting poet's soul inside his leader to think about more than the perceived cruelty of fate.

"But..."

He finds himself reminded of other dialogues such as this, their number as great as the multitude of stars that cannot be seen. The child always tended to self-flagellation in these situations. Irrational behaviour perhaps, but it taught the lesson better than a thousand hard won challenges.

Back then he was gladly filling the position of Lord Protector so that first-born Megatron could age enough to fully grasp the duties put on far too young shoulders. Now he'll probably have to do it again as both Lord Protector and Protector's heir found their final termination on this cube-forsaken vermin infested mud ball.

"There is no but, Prime." Don't you see, he asks without a sound because such traitorous thoughts can never be allowed to be spoken. Don't you see that there must never be doubts, that this was his only chance to safe us all?

Cybertron was dead long before the war began. It's children just didn't want to believe it.


	8. New Home: Lost Chances

**New Home  
Ironhide: Lost Chances**

They are watching a movie, one of those pre-holographic primitive files that are not only used for teaching but also as a way to pass the time, to get pleasure of entertainment. Personally, he does not care much for the things. Too much pathos, too much done only for the reaction it creates in the audience. The way humans have bastardized the fine art of theatre into these abominations is abhorrent to him. But the child likes these films, and so he does the honourable thing and suffers in silence.

A melody plays at the beginning of what is called a sci-fi classic. It touches something within him that he hoped was long lost, a memory he should have gotten deleted a long time ago. To avoid the torture of Hollywood, he allows it to guide his mind back into a much happier time. Before the war began...

.

"Where is he?" he demands to know. The whimpering guard before him takes one good look at the wide opening of his plasma cannon and promptly falls into involuntary stasis. Definitely not impressed by the amateurish behaviour he steps over the collapsed figure to look around.

Slag! This was the last place on his list of possible hiding places for the young heir. So, where is the little glitch?

On a viewing screen plays a news report; one of the ever repeating sob stories about a charity case winning the contest for Thanatos. As if anyone would be interested in this useless stuff? He has always held the opinion that their people's education should not depend on whether or not one managed to trick the system. And Thanatos, as honourable a ship it once was, is now nothing but a melting pot for intrigue and backstabbing.

"Rumour has it that Protector's Heir also won..." The reporter's voice is artfully bored, like any good public investigator should be. Could it be, he thinks. Did the brat really do something so outrageous? Before the report has found its end, he is already on way to the docks.

There he finds him, peacefully standing in line for the orbital shuttles. The tiny form of a youth barely through his first transformation is easy to spot in the masses of passengers.

With an air of desperation hidden under violent anger, he grabs the young one. The following struggle between adult and child does not even register on the minds of anxious travellers and overworked attendants.

"What in Unicron's name did you do that for?" he asks when he finally manages to lift the kid over his shoulder and carry him home. Stubborn silence is the only answer he receives.

"You know, Lord Protector was very frightened." If that is the truth, he does not want to contemplate it. The only thing he really knows is that Megatron does not like to be reminded of the fact that he even produced an heir. "To run away like that..."

"I didn't run away." The words are whispered against his neck, but still easy to understand.

"Really? Because from my standpoint it definitely looks like you did."

"He knew I wanted to go. I even took the test and he still didn't allow it." Stubborn pride colours the young one's reply. To be this sad so young...

"You're too young, my heir. You don't even have your armour yet, so it's obvious you weren't allowed to go."

"But..."

"No buts. You can go when you're through your next transformation." I'll make sure of that, he promises without speaking. The Lord will change his mind once he sees how much the young heir is yearning for a chance to go off-planet.

.

He is ripped out of the recollection when the movie is stopped abruptly. Weapons Master Ironhide cannot help but wonder if he made a noise, that somehow he disturbed the well meant but just not to his tastes picture show.

"You're thinking about Jazz." The words are neutral, spoken with the kind of soft voice that is able to convey so many meaning without changing its tone. The Prime is worried.

"He never got his chance," he sighs. "I promised him and he never got the chance."

"It wasn't your fault that Thanatos was destroyed." Here he can only glare at the gentle child with a poet's cruel streak. "It was an accident."

"They never found the wreck." He has wondered about this fact for a long time. Why did the old Prime not allow Lord Protector to send out a search armada?

Just why...


	9. New Home: Knight's Promise

**New Home  
Ironhide: Knight's Promise**

Medics, he has come to believe in his not so short life, are nothing but a necessary evil, something to keep around in preparation of a likely injury. Most of them cannot be used for anything but their chosen profession, making it near to impossible to find their closeness comforting in any probable way. In short, they were one of the very few things that scared him more than death.

On a normal day he would have simply ignored the pain and tried to swallow any annoying reactions caused by it. He has a reputation to maintain after all. But today isn't a normal day, not even the most nightmarish parody of a normal day. Today is his scheduled maintenance check.

The thought alone makes him shudder in revulsion.

"You're the last for today." That makes him smile, despite the knowledge that there aren't enough of his people on the planet to fill more than a half day of the medic's time. "Open up."

He does not do such thing. Instead he lets the good physician make all the test that such a mind can imagine, and some more.

"This is not a field hospital where you can expect to just get soldered back together, Ironhide. You do not need to be fully active at the moment."

Of course, he already knows that. Has known that for some months now, though fully accepting this fact is a whole different matter for him. There is always a chance that the two remaining henchmen of Megatron's army could decide that living more than a continent away from Prime is not safe enough for them. They could decide that a dead Prime is better than no Prime at all. This he just cannot allow.

He only grunts in answer.

"I need to have a look at your exo lines. Don't you understand that?" He adapts one of those sometimes strange human mannerisms and shakes his head in denial.

"You and your stubborn old-fashioned Decepticon pride!" Here he is again forced to remember exactly why a young and barely through his fifth transformation Ratchet became the private surgeon of Optimus Prime. Such shot accuracy should not be wasted in a repair shop.

Before he has a chance to act in retaliation, the medic has found his manual override switch and shut down his body. The only thing he is able to do now is wish for some plasma lasers built into his eyes. Gentle hands pry open his chest, move things around and take other things out to clean them.

This is probably the most pathetic moment of his whole life. Then, a gasp of shock from his traitorous battle brother.

"Your inner chamber was breached." He looks at a startled face with the coldness of death in his eyes. "It was surgically breached."

He wonders why Ratchet is so surprized at this fact. Wasn't it an open secret that the bodyguards of Prime and Lord Protector tended to help with the family line? Didn't the medic already know why he was one of the last warriors to choose a side in this useless civil war?

Only now does he realize that his voice has not been muted like the rest of his body. "Orion wanted it this way." And Trion followed the path of a honoured celibate gladiator, so there really was no other way for the then Prime to get what wanted.

"He wanted..." There it is again, this strange look of enraged shock on Ratchet's face. It perplexes the fighter, makes it near possible for him to understand what special kind of injury was created all those long years ago. True understanding though, the kind that is capable of explaining everything, that stays far away from his conscious mind.

When the outer casing of his most cherished sanctum is opened, he feels it like a breath of heat against the void between blind stars. It reminds him of forbidden tastes and worse prohibited treacheries, of hidden caresses and broken promises. It reminds him of a past that never was, never could be, but still yearns for the kind of freedom which only dead secrets can provide.

Somehow, beyond all thoughts of duty and honour, he wants nothing more than oblivion. He wishes to not be fully aware of what is done to him in the name of health and medicine, though avoidance is not in his reach.

Later, when it is over, the one he sometimes likes to call friend gives him permission to move again. Clicks and creaks paint his continued mobility in a light of perseverance, a sign of too old joints being too thick-headed to admit defeat. A small part of himself is happy that the next check-up will perhaps only happen after his death.

"You can go." Ratchet sounds like a shadow, hot mist on a jagged piece of armour. He sounds so...

"I won't tell Optimus." This he has no time to discuss with the medic, old comrade or not. To speak about it is as useless as a swimmer on dry land. "Your sons are safe."

"Thanks," he says. It is one of only six words he has spoken this day. Not much, even for him, but all he can give here and now.

Medics, he has come to learn, are nothing but a necessary evil. Something to keep around in case of injury.

Nothing more.


	10. New Home: Morpheus' Lot

**New Home  
Ironhide: Morpheus' Lot**

In his dreams, hidden behind a veil of tragedy and violence, there is no war. There never was, really. Everything still is as it has always been, coloured in succulent light while painted with dyes of devotion and valiant promises.

In his dream the world has not fallen apart at the seams, not lost its glamorous shine due to a people's folly. The temples are still whole, commanding, impressive in their solitude of eternal learning. Their doors are still open to a yearning plethora of curious learners. Not even once have they considered to close themselves up and chain their knowledge with a vow of dread.

In his dreams the royal brothers have never been parted by diversing opinions. There is no hate, no strife, no fight and no distrust. There is only a proud pair of rulers, the effulgent Prime and High Protector forever united in the holy triade, and the cities bow before their wisdom.

In his dreams he is happy. As happy as a warrior of his standing can ever be, that is. His boys have never learned what it means to hate, to fight, to kill. They will forever be the same young heirs he has cared for such a long time ago. They will never, never, never be forced to grow up before the time is right.

For this chance alone he is willing to die for. But alas, he knows that the rewriting of history is as dangerous as a god's humour, forceful training within a borderless vanity. It is not meant to be, this fickle dream of a possibility. Never was and will never be. The thought alone makes his heart throb in agony.

In his dreams he is allowed to be a part, to be close to the ones he has always protected. He is not forced to choose, to follow one and condemn the other. He does not get to become what he was built to be.

He is free. Free to love, free to hate, free to follow and to protect. He is bound by either rules or tradition. Neither honour nor deception is able to touch what he considers his one, his only point of weakness. Death alone is a master to his fate.

In his dreams, in those pale hours between gloomy recollection and betrayed contracts, only then can he open the doors of imagination and let loose the bolts of anger. His blades cut through amoral opulence and art devoid of feeling like a past that could not be. To create a haven, to keep safe his boys, that alone would have given him the greatest joy.

In his dreams he is young and innocent in a way that he has always denied being. Why else would he have obeyed Orion's command? Why else would he have destroyed his one chance at perfection with such idealistic magnitude?

In his dreams it is not Orion commanding a service believed by many to be the greatest gift. No, definitely not the cold and calculating Prime. Never this Prime. Instead it is another who asks, who pleads for permission.

In his dreams he bows to his Lord Protector in a way that Orion Prime would not tolerate in a thousand generations.

In his dreams his boys' line is what it has always been supposed to be, and not what it really is.

In his dreams...

There are days when he wishes his whole existence could be a dream.


	11. New Home: Words

**New Home  
Ironhide: Words**

"I don't understand you."

The words come like, as the humans of this protectorate tend to say, a curve ball. For a moment he can only look at the man and wonder what is going on, what he didn't explain well enough to confuse this trained soldier.

"Huh?" is his oh so eloquent reply.

"I meant your opinions about the Decepticons, Ironhide."

"What of them?"

"You told the new recruits that there is no bigger honour than being a Decepticon. We're fighting against the Decepticons!"

"I know." There is a tired sigh in his voice, as if a thousand burdens had been allowed to accumulate on shoulders far too proud to complain. "More's the shame."

"I don't know how you Autobots handle this stuff, but for us that would have bordered on treason."

Another sigh. Really, some days he is disgusted by his people's habit to always assimilate new behaviour. No wonder that the dominant species is suspicious.

"We have a saying on Cybertron, Will Lennox. 'One pair of wings shows you what is possible. Two pairs of wings teaches you to dream. Three pairs of wings and the heavens weep in happiness.'"

The soldier looks at him as if something has gone terribly wrong. Somehow he feels the need to power up his weapons, just to be sure that it is not an outside influence manipulating the human. One can never be to sure in these things, after all.

"In our culture those who were born with the ability to fly..." He stops. Is there even a way to say this without making the organic fear him? Obviously not, but he would have preferred to do this in a painless way.

He makes a couple of sounds that for the humans sound as if he were breathing hard to steel himself for a future hardship, shakes his head and walk away from the training grounds towards a place where they can talk in peace. Not for one moment is there doubt in him that Lennox will not follow him.

He is right.

"Wings are a sign of a proper line," he begins. "Flyers are very ancestry oriented, you know? They always know when there was an 'impure' union in their family, because then their kids lose the wings."

Lennox looks at him as if to ask what flying transformers have to do with Decepticons.

"Take Bumblebee for example. He has the wings but will never fly on his own power. Never. All because he had two flyers and one ground-bound as parents."

"I thought you could only make new bots with the Allspark."

Ironhide snorts a laugh. Painful, that. Far too much for the old wound hiding in his spark.

"Who ever gave you that idea, Will? We procreate like every other intelligent species in the galaxy, with a lot of sex and maybe the help of a good genetist."

"I think we're going off topic."

"Prude." It is a strange sight when always threatening battle hungry Ironhide giggles like a little child. Makes one wonder what he is thinking of.

"Anyway, Decepticon is a word we sort of borrowed from one of the first organic species we encountered. They met our scientists and called them what they'd call their own royalty. It means something like 'those who fly', I think.

"No wonder then that the name was loved by our flyers. Within one or two generations the warrior clans took the name as well, and it stuck."

"So, every Decepticon is some kind of royalty, or what?"

"Nope. It just means there's two meanings for the word. One says that the guy was born in a family of tradition. That's me included, by the way. Old military blood runs through my veins. The other just means the followers of Megatron."


	12. New Home: Message in a Bottle

**New Home  
Optimus Prime: Message in a Bottle**

"Optimus Prime," the human diplomat begins. "Can you explain exactly why your... technician destroyed one of our research laboratories?"

He, who was born and trained to rule over a vast empire, can only sigh. Never before has he reacted with so many headaches than since he arrived on this small organic planet. Earth customs, he has come to learn, are far more complicated than any senatorial meeting he has ever had the displeasure to not sleep through.

Medic, he wants to tell the ambassador. Ratchet is a doctor and not some kind of repair personal that is only used to keep machinery in peak condition. But of course, that is not how he replies to a question which could have already started a new war on this planet. Wouldn't want to accidentally exterminate a whole species, right?

"No, I cannot." There is a tiny spark of sarcastic glee in his voice, much as he'd normally try to mask it in a conversation. "Could you explain to me why Ratchet believed your laboratory needed its destruction?"

"The lab was part of the Human Genome Project."

Ah, how interesting.

Prime searches what humanity calls World Wide Web and finds a better answer. The laboratory was trying to decode what makes the dominant species tick. Very interesting indeed.

With what to the ambassador must seem like an abrupt air, he turns away and leaves the room. His words trail him like a robe of honour.

"If I were you, I would remember that it was your people that gave every Cybertronian on the planet the status of a diplomat."

Fully knowing that he would most probably need the next three months to pacify humanity's fear of the unknown, he looks for his medic. This is particularly difficult as Ratchet tends to hide in strange places when trying to de-glitch a medical problem. As long as said problem is wholly theoretical, that is.

Which is the reason why Prime's first stop is his Weapons Master's private quarters. If there is one mind on Earth that has made it its personal directive to always know where a medic is, then it is Ironhide.

For a short moment he wonders why the old bodyguard does this, but discards the thought once he arrives at Ironhide's door. Before he can send a message to enter, the door flings open and Ironhide storms out as if the Tharn wars have started again.

"Don't say a word, Optimus," is growled in his face. Ironhide and annoyance fit together as well as a bloodthirsty predator's taste for vegan cuisine. "He's in there, hugging my best equipment."

It is dark behind the door, view screens painting the light-less void in glimmering shades of ember and blue. Somehow this reminds him of an old children's story, something about bad things hiding in rainbows. Or was it water?..

Ratchet, eyes fixated on the largest screen, does not react when he touches the medic's shoulder.

"Why?" he asks.

Ratchet only shrugs in answer and indicates a line of code. "Can you see that?"

"I see it." But what does it mean? It is moments like these that Optimus Prime regrets never learning more about the sciences.

"Ten years before Orion and Trion were born, there was a scandal. The whole Science Academy was near to rebellion because of one anthropologist. He specialized in genetics. He had this absurd theory that we could interbreed with organic species."

He vaguely remembers hearing of this scandal. It led to one of the last wars against organic invaders.

"In the end he was banished to one of the more remote colonies. His research was either destroyed or declared a high security risk. Not even one vorn later the Academy heard of an explosion in his house, that he killed himself with a defect heating unit.

"They declared him dead and tried their best to forget about him."

Ratchet types a series of commands which transform the foreign language of genetic code into something the Prime can read. What he sees is all the reason he needs to never even dare to imagine of telling the humans anything.

"Wheeljack was here," it says. "Hope I will never find you."

.

.

**Time on Cybertron:**

1 vorn = ca. 83 Earth years;

1 Cybertronian year = 48 vorns;

Average lifespan = 350 years;

Orion and Trion ruled for 300 years before Optimus was born.


End file.
